


June Bug

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien anatomy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Bob is the sweetest bug in the world, Family Bonding, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sunstreaker deserves to be happy, Tactile, Teasing, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Bob's a big bug now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harutemu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harutemu/gifts).



When Sunstreaker came home, he was immediately greeted by the knowledge that something was _wrong._

It was just a feeling—no rhyme or reason to it—but it lingered all the same; the pervasive sense that his day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

He was used to his processor inflicting all kinds of fuckery on him these days, but this—this was different. Something _heavy_ hung in the air, and when the door to his habsuite slid open a quiet dread sunk its hooks into Sunstreaker's spark.

He’d been gone a couple hours at most—had only headed down to the market this morning to grab some supplies. The outdoor venue was a recent addition to the city, cobbled together by mechs of all backgrounds. Most of them were just trying to etch out a living on the slowly recovering planet, and it was a haphazard affair, with vendors selling what they could.

Sunstreaker had taken to visiting it when he wanted to stave off his boredom—almost as frequent a companion as Bob these days. The outings were a good distraction from the anxiety which still needled at him constantly, the unease that flared up without warning on bad days and all too often left him wrestling with bouts of irrational anger.

Ironically, Sunstreaker felt calmest— _safest—_ in the throng of predominantly neutral strangers, where he went largely unrecognized. He’d always hated crowds, but at least it was hard to be singled out in the mob. It was still _better_ , as long as he didn’t have to talk to anyone, and provided they didn’t ~~touch him~~ scuff his armor.

It helped that he wasn’t actively hated anymore. The war was over, and without defeat looming over their helms bots had moved on to worrying about other things. Sunstreaker still garnered his fair share of dirty looks from the Autobots who remembered the role he’d played, but as far as he could tell no one was out to cause him any trouble.

He’d never be popular, but Sunstreaker planned to keep laying low until time softened the memory of his ~~betrayal~~ mistake.

Who needed friends anyway? That’s what pets were for.

And Sideswipe... Sideswipe was trying. His brother was reckless, impulsive—absolutely _infuriating_ at times—but Sunstreaker appreciated him all the same. They’d been taking the time here on Cybertron to slowly patch their relationship, and unravel all of the damage the war had wrought… with marginal success.

It was harder—painful—with the bond having been severed for so long. The split had left a gaping hole in Sunstreaker’s spark where he’d once felt his twin, and their recent attempts to reconnect on a more personal level had been dredging up bad memories. He still had nightmares about the moment it’d snapped, only to be replaced by an unwanted connection to that _parasite._

The agony of the second bond breaking had almost been worse in a way, since it’d left him utterly _alone_ for the first time in his life. 

He wasn’t ready to think about whether the original could ever be repaired.

Sunstreaker had lingered at the market a little longer than usual, optics caught by the art supplies propped up in the corner of one mech’s booth. He’d always had an eye for color, and the paints had ensnared him—kept him drifting by the stall multiple times before he finally caved. He’d snagged brushes and canvas before he could talk himself out of it, and on impulse had also bought the easel leaning half-hidden in the corner.

 _What the frag_. The fighting was over, and no matter how _tenuous_ the situation on Cybertron, Sunstreaker needed a hobby before he went stir-crazy.

On short trips like this, he usually left Bob at home. It was easier to get things done without the insecticon drawing excess attention, and his pet made crowds uneasy. Bob could be trusted to not get into too much trouble by himself... for the most part.

Plus, he’d been sleeping so soundly when Sunstreaker had risen that it’d seemed both a shame and waste of effort to disturb his recharge. He’d been chirruping softly, small limbs twitching as he chased his phantom prey, and Sunstreaker’s mouth had curled up in a begrudging smile. Bob was a regular menace, but he sure was cute.

No matter how deep in recharge he left the bug, Sunstreaker always returned to find Bob waiting for him. It was rare that he didn’t reposition himself by the door to anticipate his master's return—keen to see if he’d brought back anything tasty. Sunstreaker half-expected to be bowled over by three tons of enthusiastic insecticon as he stepped through the entrance.

Instead, the door to his habsuite slid open to reveal an empty room—deathly quiet, and with no sign of his cheerful companion.

He was growing more concerned by the second.

“Bob?” he called out, as he set his purchases down by the door and made his way towards the berthroom. The insecticon wasn’t prone to wandering, so he hardly ever worried about escape attempts. Bob was usually content to entertain himself until Sunstreaker came back to shower him in affection.

The front door closed behind him, and the click was disconcertingly loud in the absence of Bob’s happy trills.

Worry gripped Sunstreaker’s spark and squeezed tight, undoing all of his progress at the market. He always felt so tightly coiled—ready to spring at a moment’s notice—and any deviation from the norm made things exponentially worse.

He forced himself to acknowledge that he was probably overreacting. Ten to one odds were that Bob was still sleeping, safe and warm in the pile of blankets where he had left him. There was no reason to assume the worst.

The fuel curdled in his tank anyway.

Sunstreaker strode towards the berthroom. He was at the door in seconds, groping blindly at the access panel. As the door slid open he hurried through, and his optics darted automatically to Bob’s berth, only to be dragged abruptly back to his own. His pace faltered.

The panic which had seized him soared to new heights.

The thing on his berth was twisted and alien, with a gnarled dark surface that almost gleamed in the low light. Between the central mass, and the tendrils which anchored it, the growth covered more than half the berth, and extended even onto the floor itself. It had effectively taken over his sleeping area, but at the moment that seemed the least of his problems.

Sunstreaker had seen these before. The swarm had left them behind in little crooks and crannies as they moved, but he'd never paid them much attention. The majority of them had been shattered, empty husks with nothing to tell, and he'd been too preoccupied with the insecticons themselves. Now, with uncertainty and blind fear clouding his processor, Sunstreaker was beginning to regret that he’d never spared them more than a glance.

Yellow biolights ran the length of the mass, and they pulsed sluggishly as if to taunt him. But lights meant _life_ , and he clung to that hope as he rushed over to the berth. Closer now, he could see that the surface was partially translucent, and that a darker shape lay nestled inside. It was Bob—it had to be—but the realization did little to lift the weight from his chest.

_Oh, Bob. What have you gotten yourself into?_

The pressure on his spark was becoming harder to ignore as he looked despairingly upon Bob and failed to come up with any answers. The only bot who’d known anything about the insecticons was Shockwave, and that fragger was long gone now.

He had no idea what to do.

Energon pounding in his lines, Sunstreaker reached out hesitantly, his fingers just brushing against the rough carapace. It pulsed weakly in response, and startled, he nearly tore them away. When nothing else happened, Sunstreaker slowly placed his palm flat against the scaly surface. He brushed his thumb gently against the small knobs which jutted up intermittently, avoiding the larger spines.

There was a flare of—something—was that a field? _Yes._ It was weak, but there—thrumming softly under his servos, and reminiscent of a mech in recharge.

Sunstreaker’s spark leapt. Cursing himself for his inaction, he began composing an urgent comm. There were no Cybertronian _vets_ —not anymore, at least—but there were medics, and there was one medic in particular who’d not only be interested in whatever this was, but liked Bob enough to actually care.

More importantly, Sunstreaker trusted him—as much as he could trust anybody.

Halfway through the message, he growled and discarded it. Useless. You couldn’t explain something like _this_ via text. He opted instead for a call.

The first try got him no response, and Sunstreaker paced furiously as he tried again, marking the call as urgent. _Come on._

[Sunstreaker? What’s wrong?] came the voice this time, and his relief was almost palpable.

“Aid,” he began, and then winced at the way his voice broke. Sunstreaker cleared the static from his vocalizer awkwardly, and hoped that First Aid would assume the remaining hoarseness stemmed from his usual brusque attitude. “We’ve got a problem. It’s not me, it’s—it’s Bob."

He glanced at the shape on his berth again, and all of its distressing implications.

"Could you come over?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent like an hour+ trying to squeeze this into the canon timeline and then threw in the towel. So instead, this fic is happening after First Aid’s return to Cybertron, but operating under the assumption that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe chose _not_ to follow Optimus to Earth. It’s also post- MTMTE #46. For reasons.
> 
> This fic is going to be an ongoing project for me, but one that I'll work on in-between other WIPs, so don’t expect super frequent updates. Also, more characters and tags will probably be added as I go along since I’ve only got a rough outline. That being said!! I'm super excited about where this is going to go ;D  
>    
> You can thank StarlightCaptivator for the title once again (she’s got a Gift), and Harutemu for giving me this awful, awful bunny~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the angst train! Choo choo

For a bot with a facemask, First Aid could pull off an impressively consternated expression.

The look was probably well-deserved, considering how vague Sunstreaker's explanation had been; he’d only pressed the urgency of the situation, and insisted that leaving his place was out of the question.

Their conversation hadn’t been the best example of his usual standoffishness either. Sunstreaker’s stoicism had quickly devolved into agitated pleas in the face of First Aid’s questioning—his only goal to cajole the medic into making a house call. He’d been lucky the clinic hadn’t been overflowing with mechs, and that First Aid had been able to get away long enough to pay him a visit.

That being said, Sunstreaker doubted that a call in the middle of the night—or on the mech’s off-cycle—would have endeared him any more to the medic. He’d done the best he could.

And now First Aid was here on his doorstep, and even inconvenienced there wasn’t much irritation to be found in his field—only that characteristic concern.

The medic greeted him amiably, and Sunstreaker grunted a quick ‘hey’ in return, as he stepped aside to usher him in.

As First Aid crossed the threshold he looked around, as though he expected to see his patient bounding towards him.

Sunstreaker’s throat cables tightened. Even when Bob had caught a virus on the Lost Light he’d been hard to keep down, determined to be a wiggly, happy nuisance amidst his glitching.

Sunstreaker cleared his vocalizer roughly.

“He’s uh. He’s in the berthroom,” he explained.

There was only one other door in the room, and First Aid nodded before heading towards it. He took one step and then paused, turning instead to meet Sunstreaker’s gaze.

“Sunstreaker, what’s wrong?” he prodded softly.

Sunstreaker shook his helm in response. There was still no point in trying to explain—where would he slagging start?

“I don’t _know_ ,” he gritted out. “I just—you’re the only one on this scrapheap that I trusted enough to deal with it, ok?” And frag him—he was admitting it too. “So can you _please_ just take a look?”

Now alarm was prickling faintly at the edge of First Aid’s field, but he hid it well for the most part—gave no _outward_ indication that Sunstreaker was unsettling him. Instead, he straightened up, and a steely glint sparked behind his visor—the one that meant the medic was prepared to tackle whatever challenge was being thrown at him.

That was something he’d always liked about First Aid. He was unassuming at first glance, but when it came down to it he got slag done—and he worked well under pressure. Then again, he supposed a strutless medic wouldn’t get very far, especially not during wartime.

Sunstreaker was right behind the medic as he led the way into the berthroom, and he almost collided with the First Aid’s back as he came to an abrupt halt.

“Primus,” he heard the mech mutter, but to his credit First Aid didn’t stay frozen for long. He was at the berth in an instant, pulling out a scanner from his subspace.

Sunstreaker paced as First Aid took his readings. He resisted the urge to hover the medic’s shoulder, but his nervousness was edging into twitchiness, and he settled for wearing a path into the floor instead. It wasn’t the same as a medbay he knew; First Aid had limited tools at his disposal. But at the very least, he was hoping that the medic could tell him that Bob was _okay._ That he could give him some reassurance that Bob wasn’t in any pain, or worse.

The nano-kliks passed at a pace which was at direct odds with the pace he’d adopted—agonizingly slow. When the scanner was finally put away with a sigh, Sunstreaker’s helm snapped up.

“Well?” he growled. He regretted it straightaway; First Aid didn’t deserve his animosity.

Concern still lingered in First Aid's field, but the medic seemed unruffled by his tone. Sunstreaker suspected it was due in part to his experience dealing with a certain CMO.

“Bob appears to be stable,” he began carefully, and Sunstreaker’s spark dropped.

First Aid was trying to be diplomatic, which could only mean that there was bad news to follow.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sunstreaker demanded, before First Aid could continue his tactful approach. “And _don’t_ treat me like glass—just fragging tell me.”

So much for fixing his tone. But the helplessness simmering under his armor turned all too quickly to self-loathing and anger—for not realizing that something was off with Bob, and for not taking him to a medic sooner.

There must have been _some_ sign—some kind of warning.

He must have missed it.

First Aid hesitated, and Sunstreaker’s engine rumbled impatiently.

“ _Tell_ me,” he insisted. “I can take it, alright?”

Could he?

First Aid nodded, slowly and reluctantly.

“The best I can tell, he’s in some kind of… dormant state,” said the medic. “There’s nothing to indicate that he’s in any distress, and his vitals have slowed down significantly, but they’re still within a functional range.”

Sunstreaker’s shoulders sagged in relief. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Was there anything leading up to this—anything that suggested Bob was feeling ill?” First Aid asked.

There was that pang of guilt again.

“No, no nothing like that. He was normal up until I came home to—to  _this_ ,” Sunstreaker answered distractedly, wracking his processor.

Or... had there been? Come to think of it, he’d been buying a lot more fuel lately. He’d just assumed that Bob was getting spoiled, and he hadn’t had the spark to restrict his intake as long as the effects weren’t showing.

First Aid was waiting patiently for an elaboration, so Sunstreaker shook his helm.

“Er, mostly. He’d been eating more than usual, but I chalked it up to him knowing that I wouldn’t say no,” he confessed.

“I see,” murmured First Aid. He jotted something down on the datapad he’d pulled from his subspace—Bob’s chart no doubt.

It was with some trepidation that Sunstreaker finally looked directly at the mass on his berth. He’d been avoiding it up until now.

“Can we get him out?” he asked, somewhat weakly.

“I... wouldn’t recommend it,” admitted First Aid. “There are signs that he’s going through some kind of, um, transformative process, but I can’t be sure. There’s a marked increase in nanite activity, and his energy levels are elevated despite the slowed vitals. Things are definitely shifting, and it looks like there might be some plate reformation occurring as well.”

First aid shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I’d be too afraid to disrupt anything.”

Sunstreaker met his gaze resiliently, and hoped that the medic couldn’t teek the distress which he was keeping so tightly bound to his frame. First Aid was perceptive though, and Sunstreaker sensed a measure of pity extending from his own field.

He fought not to recoil, even as his derma curled up in the ghost of a snarl.

He didn’t want to be _pitied._

The medic reigned it in quickly once he registered Sunstreaker’s ire.

“I'm sorry, but I don’t have the answers you’re looking for. You know, and I know, that we have very little on insecticons,” he said placatingly. “This could be _completely_ normal for him.”

“Yeah, but that’s the point. We _don’t_ know,” snapped Sunstreaker. He turned away from the empty reassurances.

“Please,” First Aid tried again—ever persistent. “Try your best not to worry before we get a better idea of his condition. I know that it’s difficult, but I’m going to do everything I can to take care of Bob, I promise. Don’t expect the worst.”

Sunstreaker nodded curtly, afraid that anything more would let loose the hysterical laughter that threatened to slip out. How could he _not_?

He turned around to resume his pacing as First Aid spoke up again.

“In the meantime, I’d suggest moving him—”

Sunstreaker whipped around, the snarl from before finally tearing past his defenses.

“No! Absolutely _not._ You already said that interfering was a bad idea—well, what if that hurts him too?” he demanded.

“Sunstreaker—”

“ _No_. He’s staying home with me, and that’s final. I’m not risking it,” he insisted. Like pit he was gonna do anything that could make Bob worse.  

Sunstreaker glared at First Aid—daring him to challenge him—and while the medic was no pushover, he seemed to realize this was a fight he wouldn't win.

“Fine,” First Aid relented, “but I’ll be coming over _frequently_ to monitor his status, and you’re going to let me set up some equipment so I can take better readings. I want him under observation constantly, if not by you, than by the tech. Got it?”

His tone brooked no argument.

“Fine,” agreed Sunstreaker curtly.

First Aid looked at him for a long moment—as though evaluating his sincerity—and then nodded slowly.

“Ok. I’m gonna head back to the clinic to grab some supplies, and then we can start setting up. I’ll be back in a breem.”

Sunstreaker grunted his agreement.

First Aid left, and he finally released the strict hold he’d been exerting over his field. It exploded in a flurry of repressed emotion, and as the tension drained from his frame it left him trembling.

As he turned, he caught a glimpse of the art supplies he’d stacked on his desk, and the pinpoint of frustration that had concentrated in his core swelled up to engulf the rest of him.

Sunstreaker stormed over. He wrenched the easel from where it sat propped against the wall. If he’d taken less time at the market—if he hadn’t been so selfish—he might have been here for Bob. Instead, he’d been off buying stupid things while Bob had been going through _whatever this was_ all by himself.

He'd put a pede through the easel before he really realized what he was doing, but once the snap registered he bared his denta in satisfaction. He threw one half across the room, where it hit the wall and left a mark. The other he hefted up like a bat. Sunstreaker eyed the offending supplies balefully, and went to town.

Containers went flying; they split open and spilled their contents across his floor and walls. Canvas fluttered to the ground and was practically trampled on as he directed his swings at the paints and watched them splatter across the wall like rancid energon.

It was cathartic.

When he was done, Sunstreaker slumped against the wall. The battered remainder of the easel clattered to the ground, and he slid down after it. He looked at the colorful, chaotic mess that he’d made, and found it distantly funny that his first and only piece of art had been an act of destruction. It seemed fitting.

There was a small whisper of regret hovering at the back of his processor. He’d been looking forward to that. He had done something nice for himself for the first time in ages, and look at where it’d gotten him.

When First Aid came back, he very deliberately didn't look at the mess, and Sunstreaker’s appreciation for him grew.

They got to work.

__________________________

[Hey, Sideswipe?]

[Huh, wha—? Sunny?]

[Sorry, I know it’s late.]

[Can we—can we just... talk?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone hold this boy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry guys, this fic was originally going to be pure fluff, but as we've seen from previous chapters I’m incapable of writing anything without injecting Emotions into it, and it’s gonna be a big ole hurt/comfort fest instead (emphasis on the comfort, don’t worry).
> 
> But you knew that from the tags ;P

Sunstreaker was hunched wearily on the couch when the ping came. Knees drawn to his chest, and faceplate buried between them, he didn’t really feel like answering. His arms tightened their grip on his legs, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea of chucking the datapad in front of him. The clunk would be satisfying, if nothing else, and it’d probably dissuade whoever was there from trying again.

On the other servo, he’d almost welcome a distraction right now—no matter how brief or annoying.

With a tired sigh, Sunstreaker uncurled the ball he’d made of himself. He felt fatigued and sluggish—as though he’d been working all day instead of just stewing pathetically—but he dragged himself to the door nonetheless.

When he opened it, he was greeted by Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker managed to dredge up some mild surprise, but he supposed it wasn’t all that unexpected. Their impromptu conversation last night had pretty much set the stage for a visit, and the six unread messages since had probably been Sideswipe trying to let him know he was coming over.

The comm had been an impulsive move on his part—motivated by distress, and a painful longing for the nights he and his twin had once spent laying in their berth, and talking into the late cycles. Impulsive, but worth it.

As usual, Sideswipe had done most of the chatting, but Sunstreaker had closed down the comm feeling a little less miserable, and gone to berth with the tiniest flicker of hope in his spark.

It was unfortunate that the feeling hadn’t lasted into the morning.

Sideswipe’s usual grin was in place, but it was uncertain—twisted by the concern which lurked underneath. He was shuffling his pedes awkwardly, a novelty in itself. They hadn’t used to be so nervous around one another.

Sunstreaker knew that the gaze he returned was vacant, but he didn’t care enough to fake anything more convincing.

“I uh—I wanted to come and see how you were doing,” explained Sideswipe. “And y’know, pay my respects?”

Sunstreaker stared blankly. He wasn’t sure he was up to this.

“I brought snacks?” hedged Sideswipe, holding up a bag of what Sunstreaker could only assume were oil chips, or something equally unappealing.

It was familiar, and the corner of his mouth almost twitched. Almost.

Sunstreaker dimmed his optics; he nodded, and let his brother in.

“He’s not dead,” he muttered, as Sideswipe passed through the doorway. His twin turned to look at him in mild confusion. “You pay your respects when someone’s dead. He’s not.”

Maybe if he said it enough times, it wouldn’t come true.

Realization registered in Sideswipe as a slight flinch.

“Right, sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear,” he said, chagrined.

“I know.”

Sideswipe looked around. There was more than a little curiosity in his appraisal of the room.

“Nice place. Can’t believe I haven’t come by before,” he said lightly. His optics lingered on a holo of Bob and Sunstreaker, taken on the Lost Light. When he dragged them back to Sunstreaker they were a little sadder—a little more serious—than before.

“ _Are_ you okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” admitted Sunstreaker. There wasn’t any point in denying the obvious.

Sideswipe’s enthusiasm flagged further. He looked Sunstreaker up and down, as though really seeing him for the first time.

Sunstreaker knew that the scratches from yesterday’s incident shone stark against his usually pristine plating. He hadn’t waxed this morning either, and while he still would have shown up most mechs in the finish department, he felt... dull.

“...Have you eaten at least?” prodded Sideswipe.

Had he? Probably not.

This was familiar too—Sideswipe making sure that he took care of himself. Sunstreaker had always been prone to skipping meals in his distraction, or sequestering himself away when he was feeling overwhelmed.

His tendency to fall into melancholy—and his irritability in general—had been a lot better with Bob around, but that support had been ripped out from under his pedes quite suddenly, and he was still reeling. It would take more than a couple of solar cycles to adjust.

Come to think of it, had he eaten... yesterday?

“I don’t think so,” he finally answered.

Sideswipe didn’t try to scold him, and unlike most bots he knew better than to offer the sorrow or pity which Sunstreaker would have rejected outright. Instead, he nodded determinedly.

“Alright, that first.”

Sideswipe didn’t ask before he started rummaging around in the kitchen, but Sunstreaker couldn’t gather the energy to snap at him. In a few nano-kliks there was a cube of energon sitting in front of him, additives shimmering in a blatant display of vitality.

Sunstreaker knew how underfueled he was—and now that his attention had been brought to it he was feeling it—but his empty tanks churned at the thought of adding anything to them. The conflict must have shown on his face, because Sideswipe went straight to wheedling.

“Just a little bit?” he asked, as though Sunstreaker would be doing _him_ a favor.

Sunstreaker conceded. He took a small sip, and the flavor bloomed on his glossa. It was almost too much, and it only enhanced the yawning hunger which had begun to claw at his internals, but it helped. From there he forced himself to take small mouthfuls—careful not to overdo it. Purging would defeat the purpose of replenishing his tanks.

When the cube was half empty he sat it down. It probably wasn't a good idea to push it. The stress of the last mega-cycle was still wreaking havoc on his systems.

He cleared his vocalizer and looked at Sideswipe, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time Sunstreaker refueled. Then again, maybe they’d both changed more than they knew.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Anytime,” replied Sideswipe, and if it was tinged with the sadness of reminiscence, neither of them mentioned it.

Sunstreaker drew a deep, shuddering vent, and launched into a recap of what Sideswipe had missed. He’d gotten the abridged version over comms, but it was relieving to be able to talk to someone about it, and remove some of the weight from his chest.

First Aid had been by early this morning and confirmed that Bob was still much the same.

He’d looked at Sunstreaker with similar concern, leaving him with an instruction to get some rest, a couple of well-intentioned reassurances, and a promise that they would talk after his shift was done.

He was trying, at least.

Despite numerous interjections from Sideswipe, Sunstreaker managed to get through his explanation without too much hassle. When he was finished, his brother vented heavily.

“...Can I see him?” he asked.

Sunstreaker nodded and led the way.

Sideswipe’s reaction to the cocoon was much the same as Sunstreaker’s had been; even knowing, it was hard to be prepared for the gnarled, alien mass taking up the berth. He reached out in mild disgust and concern to lay a servo on its surface, and Sunstreaker had to reign in the automatic, protective snarl of his engine.

“Guess it’s a good thing that Aid’s here to take care of him, huh,” observed Sideswipe, clearly off-put. The words themselves weren’t unusual, but something about the way he said them made Sunstreaker pause.

“Why?” he asked carefully.

Sideswipe looked at him with consternation.

“Because of the shuttle? It’s leaving in like, a mega-cycle remember?”

Sunstreaker stared back in disbelief.

“You think I’m still going to Earth—after _this_?” he asked incredulously.

True to form, Sideswipe matched him for tone and expression.

“You’re _not_? But—but we had plans!” he protested.

“No, _you_ had plans. I was just tagging along, and you know it,” muttered Sunstreaker. He’d seen an opportunity to spend time with Sideswipe—work on patching things—but he’d never been eager to jump back into the fray.

“That’s the only other ship heading out to Earth right now. If we don’t get on it, who _knows_ how long it'll be before we can join Optimus,” Sideswipe pressed. “We already missed our first chance.”

Said as though they’d made a mistake.  

A cold lump of anger was forming in the pit of Sunstreaker’s fuel tank. Logically, he knew that Sideswipe wasn’t being deliberately obtuse; he didn't _really_ understand, and without the bond Sunstreaker couldn't _make_ him understand.

Neither could he keep his brother from being a dumbaft though, and right now he didn't have the patience or energy to deal with it.

“They need us, Sunny! Kicking aft’s what we do best,” exclaimed Sideswipe. I can’t just stay here while the Prime is out there fighting. I mean, you’ve seen the damage Galvatron can do; Earth doesn’t stand a _chance_ without us.”

Sunstreaker huffed, turning his helm so that Sideswipe couldn't see the sharp edge forming in his optics. Yeah, kicking aft. Seemed all he was good for these days was breaking things.

He very pointedly didn’t look at the paint splattered on the wall to the left of him.

The fact that Sideswipe thought mentioning _Earth_ would motivate him proved that he either thought Sunstreaker a much better person than he was, or that his blinding optimism was edging into stupidity. He might not want to wipe humans off the face of the galaxy anymore, but he wasn’t exactly big on protecting them either.

“ _You_ can’t. But right now, Bob needs me more. Just what am I supposed to do?” he asked, deadly quiet.

Sideswipe deflated a little.

“Can’t you just ask Aid to watch him? I mean, he said there was nothing wrong!”

The forced optimism grated on Sunstreaker’s nerves.

“Nothing _wrong_? Primus, listen to yourself! What’s _not_ wrong with this picture?” he shouted, gesturing emphatically at the lump on the berth.

Were the biolights pulsing brighter than they had been earlier?

“Yeah—yeah but he’s not hurt right? He’ll be ok,” Sideswipe said stubbornly.

“We don’t. Know. That,” gritted out Sunstreaker. “Sideswipe, I’m not going.”

His twin’s optics flashed. Even without the bond Sunstreaker knew that he’d been looking forward to getting back into action. Sideswipe couldn't sit back knowing that others were throwing themselves into danger without him. He felt guilty about not being there to help, and he'd always loved the thrill.  

Sunstreaker understood that, and he respected it to a degree, but he was _tired_ , and he’d never wanted to return to another war. He'd been entertaining the idea for Sideswipe, but this had cemented the deal. He couldn't bear the thought of not being near—of agonizing from afar and wondering every night if it would be the one that Bob snuffed it.

“You're being selfish,” muttered Sideswipe hotly. “I thought you wanted to fix this—fix _us—_ but instead you wanna pick some dumb bug over your own brother?” He drew away with a snort. “Well, I’m leaving—with or without you.”

Sunstreaker felt his expression close off.

if the sudden alarm on Sideswipe’s face was any indication, he’d seen it too, and he was already regretting his choice of words. Unsurprising; he’d always been reactive and brash, and he usually didn’t mean the harsh things he said for more than a klik.

Sunstreaker knew that, but he didn’t particularly care. He felt like being petty, and bitter, and right now, he felt like punishing someone. If Sideswipe was going to be his usual impatient and pushy self, then he was going to push right back.

What was one more wrecked relationship right now?

“Sunny, I’m—”

“Get out.”

“Sunny—”

“Get. Out,” he snarled.

Sideswipe’s face was apologetic, but he was already backing up, servos up in an appeasing gesture.

“Alright, I’m going. I’m going,” he placated.

Sideswipe’s contrition and reluctance to leave were etched into every fibre of his being, but when Sunstreaker told him to shut up he listened, and soon enough he was gone.

It was probably good that the door wasn’t on a hinge, otherwise Sunstreaker might have been tempted to slam it behind him.

He tried to return to his defeated sulk, but it became quickly clear that it wouldn't work. He buzzed with restlessness, and unease, and the urge to _do_ something. He regretted destroying those supplies for the sixth time today.

A cycle later found Sunstreaker at the market again, bargaining with the same merchant. The frenzied energy worked to his advantage in this case—the mech unwilling to match his furious haggling.

Soon enough, he was back home with what he’d destroyed, and more. Drained, but unwilling to return to a despondent recharge, he stared at the supplies for a while—as though it were possible to will all of his emotions onto the blank slate in front of him. Eventually, he gathered the willpower to pick up a brush.

Sunstreaker painted.

____________________

 [Sunny?]

 […]

 [I’m sorry.]

 […]

 [I’m here, if you need me.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these boys, but they're stubborn and difficult and sometimes I wanna smack 'em upside the helm. 
> 
> In case you missed it, I went back and added a little conversation between Sunny and Sides at the end of the last chap, which is what he refers to in this one.


	4. Chapter 4

It’d been a good idea to pick up a hobby.

Painting had quickly proved to be the catharsis he needed, and better yet, it kept Sunstreaker occupied as he waited out the next couple solar cycles. Whenever the stress became more than he could ignore, he’d pull out his supplies and distract himself—until the static creeping up his struts faded away and he could think again.

Sunstreaker didn’t have anything particular in mind when he painted; he simply let the storm of his emotions guide him as he put brush to canvas. Maybe later he’d take a stronger direction with his art, but right now he relished the chance to not think, and just _do_.

He’d fragged up more times than he could count, had gotten frustrated—and even ripped apart a few of the results—but after some practice he was already starting to come closer to something he was happy with.

He was… enjoying himself, and that was a novelty in itself.

Sunstreaker had sketched some during the war, usually when he was feeling irritated and wanted to regain some peace of mind, but Sideswipe was the only one who’d ever seen the drawings. His brother had told him he had talent—that they were ‘fragging incredible’—but he’d always figured that as his twin, Sideswipe was a little obligated to think so.

And so when First Aid upon seeing them for the first time, had remarked in a quiet voice that they were beautiful, the burden on his spark had grown the tiniest fraction lighter.

The high-pitched tone of his alarm went off, demanding his attention, and Sunstreaker looked up from his work distractedly; he’d found that time flew quickly when he was immersed in his new routine. He wanted badly to keep going, but it was time to check on Bob again, and  _nothing_   took precedence over that.

Sunstreaker had chosen to set up shop in the berthroom for ease of access. He would have liked it better in the living area—where there was more space to maneuver, or spread out—but he’d been leery to leave Bob alone and unsupervised.  

 _It’s not like he’s going anywhere_ , a small, snide part of his processor pointed out.

Sunstreaker gritten his denta, and began to clean and put away the brushes. Small flecks of paint had jumped across to his armor as he worked, but they didn’t particularly bother him. It wasn’t as though he had plans to be out in public, and the paint was water soluble; he would wash it off later.

He wiped off what he could with a rag, throwing it to the side with a sigh. He then stood and walked over to the makeshift monitoring station with all of its stats and vitals. As usual, nothing seemed amiss, but nothing seemed _better_ either.

Sunstreaker swallowed hard, and beat down the dejection which threatened to rise.

It was a shame that art could only distract him so much. He was _lonely_ ; he missed Bob’s presence in his home, and his life—missed the companionship, and the sense of family. It didn’t help that the argument with Sideswipe still hung over his helm like a turbovulture, or that he'd been too stubborn to respond to all of the messages since.

A field reached out in response to his melancholy—a deliberate, concerned brush against his own—and Sunstreaker’s engine stalled momentarily. He stared at the cocoon, which against all odds had been the source.

It’d gone as quickly as it’d come, but it’d been _something_.

Sunstreaker clambered into the berth, careful of the tendrils which branched out and anchored the structure down. He lay his servos carefully on the warm, rough surface, and his spark skipped as watched the softly pulsating lights grow stronger under his touch. He waited, and while there was no obvious reaction he could almost feel the faint stirring within—of a presence hovering just beneath his servos.

 _I know you’re still in there, Bob. Could you please hurry up whatever it is you’re doing?_ he begged silently.

Bob had never had much of a field— not like a mech—and it’d been limited to basic, and often wild, expressions of his happiness or disappointment. This had felt… stronger, somehow. And while Sunstreaker had felt the field simmering below the surface on multiple occasions—starting with that flare on the first day—he’d never felt anything so... active.

Sunstreaker smiled slowly, with more hope than he’d felt in solar cycles. This was good. This was _progress_ , and First Aid would be glad to hear it in the morning.

He flopped onto his back, still smiling faintly. The worry wasn’t gone, but it’d been tempered just a little, and with his processors no longer clamoring at him recharge felt closer than it had for a while.

He could take a nap here, couldnt he? He was sick of tossing and turning on the couch, and it wasn’t like he could hurt Bob as he was right now—the carapace was way too thick.

The cocoon had grown significantly since its appearance, gradually encompassing more and more of the berth, and leaving only a third or so for Sunstreaker to sleep on. He took a little comfort in the feel of it pressing against his side, warm and content with the knowledge that Bob was still more or less okay in there.

Sunstreaker shuttered his optics. It was late, and he was tired. His stolen naps across the mega-cycle had been fleeting and unsatisfying, and he was starting to feel the effects. He would set an alarm to remind him to check on Bob, but he’d be staying here anyway. Close, in case something happened.

Sunstreaker could feel himself drifting off already.

Maybe just... a short rest…

_________________________________________

Sunstreaker onlined gradually, with none of the icy panic he was used to and feeling better than he had in ages. For once, he hadn't been woken up by a bad recharge flux. More importantly, he was steeped in warmth, and the feeling of someone’s field draped over him—heady in its contentment.

He fuzzily acknowledged the deep rumble of an engine against his back. His systems were taking a while to boot up, but a mild confusion had begun trickling in, and he had the sense that there was something he should be remembering.

 _An engine... ?_ Sunstreaker wondered sleepily. _Why would there be…_ ?

It wasn’t the only noise vibrating against his armor either; there was a kind of crooning purr emanating from behind him, where another mech was slotted up against him. Sturdy—and strangely pointy—arms were wrapped snugly around his midsection, as though they were loathe to let him go.

Sunstreaker stirred, and the field shifted abruptly from contentment to unbridled excitement. The switch was almost jarring in its suddenness, and a bit alien.

“Sideswipe?” he muttered, even as he made to rise. Only, Sideswipe didn't have claws... and he wasn’t nearly this big. Neither did he _purr_. Sunstreaker twisted around as he sat up, onlining his optics suspiciously.

The sight that greeted him dragged a strangled noise from his throat.

 _Oh Primus, he’s…big_ , was his first helpless thought. The insecticon who stared back at him wasn’t Bob. Or at least, not how Sunstreaker had come to know Bob. His first instinct was to reer away from the intimidating mech who was taking up a good portion of his berth, but he restrained himself, trembling as hot vents washed over him.

They were… very close.

Bob—and it had to be Bob, there was no other explanation—trilled in concern. It was deeper than usual, but held the same inflection. He nuzzled at Sunstreaker’s helm, and the way he began to purr louder at seeing him awake was all Bob as well. Sunstreaker went rigid in his effort not to flinch away.

His elation at seeing Bob _awake_ was warring with the instinctive urge to put space between himself and the hulking insecticon. He was doing his best to reign it in— lest he upset him—but how could he have prepared for _this_? He’d woken up with what was essentially a full-grown member of the Swarm in his berth!

The Bob of a deca-cycle ago had been cute—weird, but largely unthreatening. The Bob of right now looked like the dozens of other creatures that Sunstreaker had put down in order to survive.

His inner conflict was soothed somewhat by the happiness radiating from the insecticon's field. That in itself was a change; the old Bob had always been limited in how he could express himself, but this field felt no different from any other mech's.

Bob was sitting up now, and peering at Sunstreaker with alert optics. 

“Bob?” he asked shakily, just to be sure—though really, who else could it be?

The insecticon perked up immediately, releasing another happy trill. And yet, contrary to what Sunstreaker had come to expect from his pet, he didn’t leap on him in his enthusiasm. For all that they were sitting plating to plating, Bob seemed to be giving him… space?

Whatever the reason, Sunstreaker appreciated it.

“Just, stay there,” he commanded uneasily. Bob could still change his mind, and while the _other_ Bob jumping on him hadn’t really been a problem, Sunstreaker didn’t relish the idea of all that mass pinning him down.

Bob shifted where he was, but he listened, and Sunstreaker took the chance to look him over more thoroughly. Desiccated pieces of cocoon were strewn around him, the base nothing but a hollowed out, and mildly sticky husk. First Aid had clearly been right about it being a metamorphosis.

Did this mean—had Bob not been fully grown? Had Shockwave made insecticon... sparklings?

 _Or maybe they’d been propagating other ways_ , his processor pointed out.  

It was also possible that this was just a part of whatever progression Shockwave had planned for the Swarm. No matter the cause, it explained why Bob had always looked so different from the others, and why he’d been so small; it hadn’t even been his final form.

Even more notably, this was a _mech_. A weird, and slightly unnerving one, but a mech nonetheless. Not for the first time, Sunstreaker wondered uneasily what— _who_ —Bob had been before all of… this.

There was a curious tilt to Bob's helm, and a familiar eagerness lurking behind those sharp optics. His claws were tapping at the berth covers, as though it were a trial to stay still.

“Good boy,” said Sunstreaker absently. He patted the large thigh in front of him, and Bob chittered. He turned his gaze to Sunstreaker’s servos.

“Sorry, buddy,” he apologized, “I don’t have any treats for you.”

Sunstreaker was already pulling up First Aid’s comm line. To his frustration, the medic didn’t pick up until the third try, and when he finally did he sounded harried.

[Sorry. There’s been an accident; they’re bringing him in now, and they need me for surgery. Is this life-threatening?]

Sunstreaker filled him in as succinctly as he could, and even amidst his preoccupation, First Aid’s happiness shone through. When asked if Bob seemed okay enough to wait until the crisis had been taken care of, Sunstreaker turned his attention back to the insecticon, who... was currently making a break for it.

 _Apparently_ Bob had decided that Sunstreaker’s distraction meant he could disregard the previous command, and he was currently sliding off the berth. He landed little unsteadily, and wobbled as he stood—as though he were unused to existing so upright.

Bob looked back at Sunstreaker with bright optics, as though seeking something... praise?

[Sunstreaker?]

“Sure,” he agreed weakly.

Just what had he gotten himself into?

_________________________________________

[You’re an aft.]

[<3]

[Forgive me? <:3c]

[...Yeah.]

[But only if you never make that face at me again.]

[Also, you’re an idiot.]

[Yeah, but I’m _your _idiot.]__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He's here_.
> 
> Also, I've updated the relationship tags to reflect my developing thoughts on the boys' past relationship, and where I wanna take them in the future.
> 
> First person to spot my bad joke can ask me any question they want, provided it's not Massive Spoilers ;3c


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term is over! Commence celebratory chapter-posting.

Sunstreaker shook his helm, attempting to regain some sense of control. He knew that the shock had yet to really set in, but neither did he know how to process what he was feeling. At some point in the mega-cycle he’d allowed the stress to spiral into apathy—an unconscious measure to protect himself from the sparkbreak ahead—and now that the situation had resolved itself nothing felt quite real. His servos were trembling. 

Bob was busy exploring the room. He was looking at everything as though he were seeing it with new optics, and in a sense, Sunstreaker supposed he was. He lingered at the makeshift workstation, and Sunstreaker stilled his vents as he debated whether or not to tell Bob to leave it. As far as he could tell, the insecticon wasn’t making an attempt to pick up or eat anything. Instead, he seemed to be staring at the half-finished painting on the easel, a rendering of the cocoon in dark, angry colors. 

Sunstreaker felt a brief flash of self-consciousness, and he quickly stamped it down. It wasn’t as though Bob understood what he was seeing. 

But Bob made a small crooning noise as he continue to look upon the painting, and if Sunstreaker hadn’t known better he’d have said that the sound was almost apologetic. 

He brushed off the lingering disquiet, and forced himself to stand up. He couldn’t stay in bed all day—no matter how tempting it was to slide back into recharge, and put off dealing with this revelation. 

The movement won Bob’s attention, and he rejoined Sunstreaker as he climbed out of the berth, and made his way towards the door. 

The insecticon was a good two helms taller than him, and Sunstreaker couldn’t help the wariness which still prickled at his struts. Time and experience had proven that Bob would rather die than hurt him, but it was all too easy to recall the gaping maws and gleaming fangs that sometimes surfaced in his recharge. If Bob was anything like the others, his facemask concealed a veritable nightmare. 

It helped that this was still undeniably _Bob_. Sunstreaker could see it in the contented slant to his antennae, and in the cheerful shine to his optics. Even the way he walked was familiar; he was bipedal now, but there was a spring to his step which was unmistakable. 

Of course, knowing Bob, he was bound to be hungry.

Sunstreaker made his way to the kitchen with a less-than-graceful insecticon at his heels. Bob was clearly still getting used to his new pedes. He seemed to have figured it out for the most part, but he stumbled occasionally, and his claws skittered along the walls as he reached out to steady himself. 

Upon entering the room, Sunstreaker stopped dead in his tracks. 

What the _frag_. 

What greeted him was a scene more akin to a massacre than a kitchen. Cubes were strewn across the counter, and the spilled energon had since pooled to drip down onto the ground alongside a few fallen containers. Most of the cabinets were open, and it was clear that they’d been ransacked for the sake of Bob’s fuel tank. 

Unfortunately, it also appeared that most of that energon had ended up on the floor, leaving it slicked with pink. Large smears indicated where it’d been stepped in and spread even further, and the tracks led back to his berthroom door. 

Sunstreaker threw his servos up in the air. 

“ _Bob_ ,” he exclaimed as he turned around. 

He was met with a mournful look; one that almost immediately drained the indignation from his frame. 

Sunstreaker sighed. 

“ _Bad boy_ ,” he admonished half-heartedly.

Bob chittered unhappily at the dreaded phrase, and Sunstreaker felt a pang of guilt. Honestly, what was a little mess in the face of everything? He’d probably been starving, and from the looks of things he’d been just as unfamiliar with his new servos as his pedes.

Sunstreaker reached out a servo of his own, and was momentarily surprised when Bob caught it midair. He brought it up to his facemask, nuzzling Sunstreaker’s fingers softly in what was apparently apology, and something in him ached. He reached up to rub in-between Bob’s antennae, in the way he knew he liked it best. 

“I’m such a sucker,” he muttered. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

Bob purred, his optics slanted in contentment, and his field exhibiting none of the sadness from moments ago.

Primus, what a faker. Obviously, his ability to play Sunstreaker like an electro-bass hadn’t been affected at all by his transformation. 

Sunstreaker turned back to the kitchen, and this time as he viewed the carnage he couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He supposed that some things never changed. 

The thought made warmth bloom under his chassis, and after all the stress of the past mega-cycle he was suddenly overwhelmed by the sense of relief that swamped him. 

He laughed again. And again. And soon Sunstreaker was sliding back against the wall to rest on the floor, the sudden onset of mirth shaking his frame down to its bolts. He brought his servos up to cover his faceplate as he laughed, and he didn’t realize that they had turned to sobs until Bob was crouching down to his level, chirruping in concern. 

The cadence was surprisingly understandable; to Sunstreaker’s audial, the sounds almost mimicked the rise and fall of sentences, displaying a range which he’d never heard before. Bob lowered himself to the floor, repositioning himself so that he could lean his shoulder against Sunstreaker’s. He refrained from pulling away, and the chirrups segued into a low, soothing purr, which traveled through the connection and grounded him. 

Sunstreaker accepted the soft brush of Bob’s field, and allowed all of his pent up frustration to spill over. 

It was over in less than a klik. When the emotions had run themselves dry he was left feeling strangely hollow, but at the same time resoundingly better. Bob’s presence helped—both for the comfort of a familiar presence, and the lack of judgement in the face of Sunstreaker momentarily losing it. 

When he stood up, Bob followed, and Sunstreaker was once again caught off-guard by the intensity lurking behind those optics. 

Bob was acting… weird. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

Sunstreaker gave the kitchen another once-over, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the mess; he’d get back to it before they recharged. Instead he resumed the hunt for energon, and was relieved to find an untouched stash in one of the lower compartments. 

He hesitated. He couldn’t put the energon in a bowl anymore; Bob was too big, and something about feeding a mech-shaped insecticon like a mechanimal seemed... wrong. 

Sunstreaker held out the cube to Bob, unsure if he would know what to do. The state of the kitchen didn’t exactly speak to his dexterity. Bob didn’t hesitate, however, plucking the cube carefully from Sunstreaker’s servos and making sure to support it with both of his. The practice had obviously paid off. 

As the insecticon downed the cube, Sunstreaker took the opportunity to really _look_ at him.

As expected, his mouthplate had slid back to reveal mandibles and a number of sharp teeth, and the claws gripping the cube were long, but not unwieldy. Bob’s general shape was still there—in both his helm and body—but it’d been streamlined into a frame as lithe as it was solid, and protected by thick armored plates. His color scheme and secondary arms were familiar, as were the spikes jutting out from his shoulders. Most noticeably different were the two segmented wings which peeked out from beneath their shelter in his back plating. Sunstreaker wondered briefly what his alt was. 

Bob was different, but not _too_ different.

A ping at the door startled him from his observation, and Bob looked up from his meal to meet his optics. Sunstreaker felt vaguely caught in the act—though _what_ act he didn’t know—and cleared his vocalizer. 

First Aid would have called beforehand, and Sunstreaker didn’t make it a habit to encourage visitors. In fact, in order to have visitors, one usually needed to have friends in the first place. 

He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly who was behind that door.

“Hey, Sunny! Open up!” shouted a voice. A very familiar, very infuriating voice. 

Sunstreaker stomped his way over. Yet again, he wished that the door was on a hinge, so that he could have yanked it open to underscore the glower with which he greeted Sideswipe. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. He’d forgiven him, sure. Over comms. That didn’t mean he wanted to _see_ him right now. But because it was Sideswipe he’d assumed it was an open invitation, and then picked the most inconvenient time possible to show up.

Sideswipe wiggled his fingers in a sheepish wave. 

“Hey.”

Sunstreaker stared, annoyed that he’d ignored the question, but compelled by exasperating fondness to not close the door in his face. 

“I thought you left already,” he prompted, when nothing else followed. 

Sideswipe scuffed a pede against the ground. 

“Shuttle got delayed. I’ve got a couple cycles before it heads out.”

“And...?”

Sideswipe vented harshly. 

“I dunno!” he exclaimed. “I just wanted to come and say I’m sorry. You know, in person. You’re ignoring all my messages again—like an aft, by the way—and I know it’s because you want your me-time, and because things kinda fragging suck for you right now, but I also don’t wanna leave you like—” he gestured vaguely at Sunstreaker’s dull paint “—this”.

Alright, delivery aside, that’d been… surprisingly mature, coming from Sideswipe. 

“Anyway, I know you love that dumb bug. I might not get it, but that doesn’t mean I gotta be a crankshaft about it,” Sideswipe added. “He needs you. I get it.”

Sunstreaker cleared his vocalizer.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I appreciate it.” 

Sideswipe was scuffing his pede more pointedly now. 

“Listen, I can hang around Cybertron for a while,” he offered. “It’s not like Earth is going anywhere, and Prime’ll be fine without me.” He peered over Sunstreaker’s shoulder, in the direction of the berthroom. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

“Well, uh—”

Sunstreaker could hear Bob shifting around in the background, and was already envisioning all the ways this could go wrong. He was saved from having to explain, however, by Bob’s sudden appearance behind him.

Sideswipe jumped back with a curse. His hand flew to his subspace—presumably to one of the many weapons stashed away inside—but he withdrew it under the weight of Sunstreaker’s unimpressed stare. 

“Sunny, that’s—”

“I know, yeah.”

“He’s—”

“Yes.”

Sideswipe gestured wildly. 

“But look at him—”

“Sideswipe, I _get it_.” 

He dropped his arms in defeat, but seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the insecticon hovering over Sunstreaker’s shoulder. The insecticon who was still acting surprisingly well-behaved. 

“Er, hi Bob," Sideswipe ventured hesitantly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so… okay. Or uh, person-shaped?” 

Sunstreaker felt a prickle of unease. That was what he had been wrestling with too, ever since Bob’s emergence. 

“ _Is_ he? Y’know, a person?” Sideswipe asked, looking at Bob as though he expected him to break into speech at any moment.

Sunstreaker shook his helm.

“I dunno. I mean, you saw the rest of the swarm; they looked like mechs, but they sure didn’t act like them”. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m hoping First Aid will be able to clear a few things up,” he admitted.

Sideswipe nodded absently.

“Wow, you’re a big one, huh?” he asked, directing the question at Bob.

Bob rumbled happily in response. Evidently satisfied with the interaction, he wandered off again.

“Sides?”

“Mm?”

“Just go,” he said. “We both know that you’re going to go stir-crazy if you don’t. It’s fine, seriously”.

Sideswipe still had drive; he still had the fire to keep fighting. He wasn’t like Sunstreaker—broken, and burnt-out.

Sideswipe made a face. 

“Yeah, but I just. Don’t wanna go back to the same old slag—you and I on opposite sides of the galaxy, fighting different battles,” he admitted.

“You do want to help though.” 

They looked at each other, and bond or not Sunstreaker knew that Sideswipe understood that _he_ understood. 

“Fine, okay. But on _one_ condition.” Now there was a finger being pointed perilously close to Sunstreaker’s faceplate. “We’re gonna talk. Every night. Don’t give me that slag about being busy and stuff.”

Sunstreaker hesitated. Every night was a lot to ask. He lost track of time so easily, and finding the patience for social interaction was often a chore. But… this was Sideswipe. They’d spent a good portion of their lives together—seeing and talking to each other every day, if not spending most of it in each others’ company. It’d never felt like a chore then. A small part of him had already admitted that he ignored most of Sideswipe’s messages not out of annoyance, but because he was scared of losing the little that they’d regained. 

“...Deal.”

Sunstreaker stiffened as Sideswipe pulled him abruptly into a hug. 

“I’m glad you got your daffy bug back,” was murmured into his audial. 

Sunstreaker’s arms were being plastered to his sides; he couldn’t return the embrace, but he did gradually relax into it. It wasn’t as though he had any finish worth preserving right now.

“Come back safe, you idiot,” he muttered.

“‘Course I will. I’m me.” 

Sunstreaker snorted. He shifted slightly, and Sideswipe let him pull away. 

Whatever Sideswipe planned to say next was interrupted as Bob shuffled over to join them again. He was holding a cube of energon, which he presented almost shyly to Sunstreaker. When he stared, but made no move to accept the offering, Bob pressed it at him more insistently. 

“I think you’d better take it, bro.”

Sunstreaker did. 

“Um, thanks,” he offered.

It was clear that Bob wasn’t satisfied, however; the bright gaze made Sunstreaker feel like he was being scrutinized. He was obviously waiting for something. Or… on him? 

Sunstreaker hesitantly brought the cube up to his mouth and took a sip. His tanks thanked him; his fueling yesterday had been pretty minimal. Beside him, he could practically _feel_ Sideswipe smiling. 

“Watch out, soon you’re gonna have him bringing you energon on the reg’,” Sideswipe said slyly. “He’s gonna be worse than me.”’ 

“Shut up.”

As Sunstreaker watched Bob’s retreat, it didn’t escape his notice that the counter had been cleaned. 

______________________________

[Hey, Sunny. Guess what?]

[What?]

[I can see your house from here~]

[...Seriously. You commed me for that.]

[;9]

[Have a good flight. Try not to crash the ship.]

[*wiggles fingers* No promises...]

[...and kick enough aft for the both of us.]

[ _Hah_. You can count on _that_.]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had a day off in like 2 weeks, so this chapter probably isn't up to my usual editing standards. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy ^^; 
> 
> I meant to say at the end of the last chapter, but I've been imagining Bob's alt as something cicada-esque. A good and cuddly bug with big ole' eyes.

In the end, they went to First Aid.

The medic was still wrapped up in the wreckage of the crash, but he’d promised to make time for the two of them provided they could make their way to the hospital. The option to wait had been tempting, but with no idea how long it would take—and the increasing restlessness plaguing him and Bob alike—Sunstreaker figured it was better to just suck it up and face the public.

It’d been awkward from the start; in preparing to leave, he’d glanced uncertainly at the leash hanging by the door, and very quickly decided it wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Thankfully, it hadn’t proved necessary so far. Bob had been incredibly well-behaved, trailing behind Sunstreaker for the duration of the trek as mechs parted like the sea before them. He seemed intent to study everything they passed- peering at scenery and mech alike as though he wanted to absorb as much information about his new world as possible. 

Unfortunately, they were still attracting a lot of attention. Bob had been conspicuous _before_ his transformation, and while he was no longer the same flurry of energy, his new form stood out even more in the crowd—towering above half the mechs they passed. His nonstandard appearance drew whispers and stares, ranging from curious to hostile, and Sunstreaker’s plating prickled under the unwanted attention. 

The mechs that had seen Shockwave’s insecticons before were probably putting two and two together. It made him uneasy, the threat of a confrontation looming. He could only hope that they’d make it to First Aid without inviting conflict; Sunstreaker didn’t back down from a fight—and he was ready to defend Bob with fists and denta if need be—but he really didn’t need that kind of trouble right now. 

Turning over a new leaf had meant dismantling his antagonistic reputation bit by bit, and that meant no slagging mechs because they’d looked at him a little funny. 

Bob didn’t seem too bothered by the attention, chirring absently as he continued to take in his surroundings. Sunstreaker got the distinct sense that the noises were supposed to be reassuring him, which was admittedly kinda cute. He probably didn’t have any reason to be worried—at least, not about a one-on-one confrontation. Bob was intimidating, and most mechs would be leery to start something with a mech so... disquieting. They could use that fear of the unknown to their advantage. 

And hushed muttering aside, Sunstreaker felt pretty secure with the insecticon guarding his back.  
They progressed the last couple of uncomfortable kliks unaccosted. Sunstreaker did his best to shrug off the clinging optics, and glared at anyone who had the nerve to meet his face. He still remembered what it was like to be unquestionably arrogant—not weighed down by uncertainty and apprehension—and he channelled that now. 

Evidently, he hadn’t lost it completely; most of the spectators dropped their gazes awkwardly when acknowledged—unwilling to contest his challenge. 

Sunstreaker pushed through the hospital doors, and was greeted by more staring. His engine rumbled warningly in response, and optics slid away—though the majority of the mechs continued to sneak looks. The room teeked of wary curiosity. 

As they approached the front desk, the mech behind the counter gripped his datapad tightly. No doubt some neutral that they’d conscripted into helping. There were only four medics on Cybertron right now—and fewer nurses—but there were plenty of mechs either guilty or willing enough to lend a servo.

“Can I help you?” the mech asked hesitantly. 

“I’m here to see First Aid,” Sunstreaker said shortly. 

The mech shrunk back from his brusque tone.

“Well, um. The medics are all currently attending to other patients,” he explained slowly. He eyed Sunstreaker as though he weren’t sure how much information he should give him. “And there’s quite a lineup, as you can see. If you fill out one of these forms, I can add you to the waiting list…” 

Sunstreaker stared the mech down, irritated and unimpressed.

He was exhausted. He was also _sick_ of not knowing anything, and he wasn’t going to sit around half a cycle to get his answers. They’d waited long enough. 

The mech wilted under his gaze. 

“Just tell First Aid I’m here to see him,” ordered Sunstreaker. 

“I’m afraid I can’t—” 

Sunstreaker slammed his servos on the desk. He leaned in, fighting to keep his animosity under wraps.

“Look,” he growled. “I’ve had a really _long_ day, and I don’t have time for this slag. First Aid told me to come see him. I’m here. Let. Him. Know.” The last couple words were bit out in a resentful snap.

Bob had picked up on Sunstreaker’s tone. His armor had begun to lift and flare out in what he’d presumably deemed an adequately supportive threat display. 

In the face of Sunstreaker’s short temper—and apparently over the shock of their arrival—the mech seemed to find some backbone. He cast an uneasy look at Bob, but forged on. 

“Sir,” he stated firmly. “I’m afraid you’re disturbing the other patients. You can either do as I’ve asked, and wait in the lobby, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave the building.” 

Sunstreaker stared. Oh, for _Pit’s_ sake. 

He commed First Aid. 

Which in hindsight, probably should have been his first move.

[Hey. I’m here, but your little guard drone won’t let me see you.] 

[Oh! I’m so sorry; I should have warned him you were coming. I’ll deal with it.]

A nanoklik later, First Aid’s voice came through a communicator on the desk. 

“Let him up, Roadblock. I told him to come and find me. It’s fine.”

“But sir! The other patients…” sputtered the receptionist.

It was hard to argue with First Aid—with his gentle voice and understanding demeanor. Roadblock was probably only protesting to save face at this point. 

“We’ve dealt with all the critical ones,” First Aid reassured him. “Everyone’s had their scans, and it’s only minor damage left—the majority of it cosmetic. That puts them on the same priority level as Sunstreaker, and he’s actually overdue for an appointment.”

Roadblock still didn’t look happy. 

“Alright, sir,” he finally relented.

Roadblock glared at Sunstreaker and his still-bristling shadow, clearly unsatisfied with the turn of events. 

“First Aid is currently on the second floor. I trust you won’t cause any _problems_ on your way there,” he sniffed. 

Sunstreaker didn’t bother responding. 

The heat of nosy optics on his back was disconcerting, and it was with relief that he rounded the corner. Bob padded alongside easily, his stride longer than Sunstreaker’s. His plating had smoothed down again now that the situation had de-escalated, and he chittered curiously at the various medical implements they passed. 

First Aid was waiting for them on the second floor. Like everyone else, he too seemed momentarily stunned by Bob, and had to clear his vocalizer before speaking. 

“Wow. That’s... different.”

“Yeah.”

First Aid seemed to shake himself out of it, gesturing to a nearby exam room. Apology rolled off his field in waves as he ushered them in. 

“Sorry about Roadblock. It was my fault, not his,” he said contritely.

“It’s... fine.” 

Upon entering the room, Bob once again took to exploring his surroundings. He padded over to the counter and picked up a set of clamps, holding it up to his faceplate for examination. Sunstreaker experienced a very brief moment wherein he was concerned the insecticon might eat it, before the implement was placed down once more—neatly alongside the others. 

First Aid also seemed at a loss.

“Can you get him to sit down on the berth?” he asked. 

Sunstreaker shrugged. He walked over to the berth himself, and plopped down on the edge of it. 

“Hey Bob,” he said, patting the spot beside him. “C’mere.”

Distracted from his rummaging, Bob perked up and plodded over. He took a seat obediently next to Sunstreaker, though his pedes still stretched to the ground. 

First aid nodded approvingly. 

“Alright, well. First things first! Let’s run a scan and make sure everything’s working alright,” he said. 

A scanner was pulled from his subspace, and First Aid held it up to Bob—who only looked on in interest. In a few moments, it signalled a conclusion, and the medic began scrolling through the information it’d gathered. Sunstreaker waited with baited breath.

“Well. Things are definitely _different_ ,” First Aid muttered. “Physically, the changes are immense. But while I don’t have any standard readings to go off of, I’m not seeing anything particularly _concerning_ …” First Aid paused suddenly in consternation. 

A sliver of shock wormed its way into his field. 

Sunstreaker leaned forward, suddenly worried. There wasn’t anything _wrong_ with Bob, was there? He’d only just started to get comfortable with the idea that he was _okay_. 

“It’s… I’m looking at his cerebral mapping,” explained First Aid absently. “The energy that his processor is putting out, the patterns—even the structure of his neural pathways—it’s... remarkably similar to what _any_ Cybertronian would exhibit.”

Sunstreaker’s engine stalled audibly as the explanation sank in. He didn’t want to think about— _couldn’t_ think about—what that might mean.

“ _So_? What’re you saying?” he demanded.

“I’m saying that the transformation seems to have affected Bob on _every_ level—down to his very nanites,” explained First Aid, a little breathlessly. “If I were to compare these scans to the old ones, I’d be hard-pressed to even identify them as the same mech.” 

He appeared fascinated by the readings displayed on the screen, and in that moment Sunstreaker wished he had the knowledge to understand the seemingly meaningless numbers. Instead, he could only wait impatiently for First Aid to interpret them.

“His frame is different, of course—and as a result, his internal functions—but those aren’t the only things that have changed. His processor has been completely rearranged; it appears to be operating on a _fundamentally_ different level—one much more comparable to what we’re familiar with. It’s- it’s incredible, really,” murmured the medic. 

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Sunstreaker’s fuel tank.

Meanwhile, First Aid was frantically taking notes. He glanced carefully at Bob, and Bob stared calmly back. 

“Has he been acting any differently?” 

“I... I dunno,” began Sunstreaker, and then stopped. That was a lie. Bob _had_ been acting weird, and it’d begun with a pair of sturdy arms wrapped possessively around his midsection. Bob had always been cuddly, so he hadn’t thought much of it after the initial shock had worn off. Now, he was reevaluating—both the initial incident, and everything that’d followed.

“Yeah. He’s been doing stuff he never did before,” admitted Sunstreaker. “I actually wanted to ask—frag, I dunno what I wanted to ask. I just—” Sunstreaker gestured helplessly. “—earlier, he brought me a cube of energon. And I think—I think he might have even used the washracks to clean himself up? But he’s always _hated_ baths.”

He’d also eaten the cocoon when Sunstreaker was preoccupied with picking up the living room, but that didn't feel relevant. 

First Aid was nodding; when he spoke, he did so slowly and carefully. It was probably meant to be reassuring, though to Sunstreaker it came off more as though as though First Aid thought he were dealing with an injured mechanimal—fragile and unpredictable. He might have minded it more, had he not been so preoccupied with watching Bob pick at the berth. 

“He’s probably reprocessing a lot of what he saw before,” First Aid offered. “And from the sound of it, he’s picking things up quickly; I doubt he’ll have too much trouble readjusting.” He tapped his stylus against his forearm, as though debating how much he should say. “We still don’t know much about the swarm, Sunstreaker. Still, we’ve seen the results of shadowplay. Reducing a mech to a set of basic, programmed instincts is probably within the realm of that.”

Sunstreaker had begun to feel a little sick. 

“So you mean this whole time, I’ve been treating a bot like a mechanimal?” he asked tightly. 

‘Well, hang on,” said First Aid. “You couldn’t possibly have known. If Shockwave was quite literally able to strip a mech of his _sentience_ , it goes beyond anything we’ve seen before. That’s deep processor work. It would require reformatting a mech’s entire cerebral structure to something almost entirely dependant on instinct—”

“It’s fragging disgusting,” Sunstreaker spat.

First Aid didn’t seem to mind the interruption. He murmured his agreement, and looked over at Bob, who was now flexing his claws against the berth.

“But... while I _strongly_ suspect that’s what happened to the original swarm members, I’m not so sure that’s what’s happened to Bob,” he offered.

Sunstreaker frowned. 

“What do you mean?”

“That kind of tampering would show extensive damage—the kind that’s never showed up on his scans. This transformation—this jump from sentience to sapience—it’s seamless, like a natural transition. It doesn't look like a reversal, it looks like an _evolution_ ,” First Aid explained. Sunstreaker could parse his growing excitement in the way that he gestured as he spoke. 

“Okay,” First Aid said, before drawing in a steady vent. “So, some of this is going to sound a little... weird, but hear me out.”

Sunstreaker almost groaned aloud. First Aid practically salivated at the possibility of new research, and this was looking more and more like one of his projects by the klik. He kept his mouth stubbornly shut, however, too starved for real answers to risk missing anything. 

“We don't know much about how the swarm was created but we _do_ know they were Shockwave’s attempt to mimic the old insecticons. What he _got_ were weak clones infused with Cybertronian CNA—most of them failures—which he just tossed out. Once they were out in the wild, those clones started doing their own thing, gathering in large groups to survive.” 

Their _thing_ had involved ripping apart whatever and _whoever_ they could get their servos on, but Sunstreaker didn’t push the issue. It was clear that First Aid was into this. He had to wonder if the medic been diving through whatever accounts he could find in his spare time. Sunstreaker wouldn't put it past the medic to find research a fun use of his free-time.

“Now, there's nothing to say they couldn't have been reproducing out there,” continued First Aid. “Considering Bob’s small stature, it’s unlikely he was ever a full Cybertronian; Shockwave tended to use standard-issue mechs for his experiments, as a control.” He pulled a face. “Ever the pragmatist.”

Sunstreaker hadn’t followed all of the details—hadn’t cared, really—but he quickly latched onto the possibility that Bob had never actually been a _mech_ before this. 

“So Bob was… a sparkling? A baby insecticon?” he hedged. 

“Not necessarily!” said First Aid. “I mean, at some point, yeah. But by the time you met him, Bob was most likely fully grown. His size was probably due to the fact that he just a drone—not an insecticon of any kind of rank. You found him alone, right? Abandoned?”

Sunstreaker grunted an affirmation, and First Aid nodded. 

“Well, for whatever reason, he'd been left behind. And with no swarm to need him, he had no motivation for this kind of... metamorphosis,” he said. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Sunstreaker snorted. 

“Barely,” he replied. “You’re giving me a helmache, to be honest.” He cast a look at Bob, from the corner of his optic. “But why now? What’s different? I mean, he _still_ doesn’t have that.”

First Aid hesitated. 

“Well… he’s got you,” he suggested gently. “For all intents and purposes, you _are_ his swarm. You’re his family.”

Sunstreaker’s throat cabling tightened involuntarily, and he cleared his vocalizer in an attempt to lessen the feeling. 

“We saw how adaptive the insecticons were, and how diverse,” mused First Aid. “Transforming as his situation or environment demands might not be that new to Bob, and this time he had a strong impetus in you. The Cybertronian CNA has _clearly_ come to the forefront. If he felt that he wasn’t much use as a drone, changing his frame would have enabled him to become a better protector, or even… hm.”

“What?” grumbled Sunstreaker, when it became clear that First Aid was on the verge of getting lost in thought. 

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he said, waving a dismissive servo. “Primus, this is so interesting. Please tell me you'll let me run some tests.”

Sunstreaker ignored the request, for now. 

“Does he understand us?” he asked. He was mildly shaken by the idea that Bob had been hiding this kind of potential the whole time. 

“That depends on what you mean. He doesn’t have the downloads necessary to process neo-cybex, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s been picking up on our cues—like any mech speaking a foreign language might,” explained First Aid. He grinned at Bob, and received a small chirr in return. 

“I still feel like slag for not realizing.” 

Realizing _what_ , Sunstreaker wasn’t quite sure. 

First aid hummed sympathetically, reaching out to cover Sunstreaker’s servo with his own. Sunstreaker didn’t pull away.

“I understand,” said First Aid. “But Sunstreaker? Don’t blame yourself. You’ve been an incredibly good friend and caretaker to Bob, and he loves you very much—that’s clear. This is just a new chapter. We also don’t know how much he was aware of before; he’s probably been busy reprocessing what he remembers, and he’s going to want your help.”

After a moment, Sunstreaker nodded. He withdrew his servo from First Aid’s reach. 

“And more importantly,” added the medic, as he pulled a chip from his subspace, “we’re going to let him speak for himself.” 

Realization dawned. A language pack. Sunstreaker was suddenly awash with a flood of nervousness.

As First Aid located a suitable medical port and began transferring the data, he found himself holding his vents. 

When it was done, Bob shuttered his optics briefly, and then shook his helm as though clearing static from it. Then, he turned his bright optics on Sunstreaker. 

“Hi, hi.”

____________________________

[Bob can speak.]  
[Sorry??]  
[Yeah.]  
[Uh, tell him I say hi...?]  
[What the frag, Sunny.]  
[...yeah.]  
[So he like, understands us?]  
[He does now. First Aid gave him the download.]  
[Well, then... uh. Tell him I said he’d better watch your back while I’m gone.]  
[...I can handle myself, you know.]  
[Never doubted it, bro <;D]  
[Dude.]  
[I’m gonna teach him _so_ many dirty words.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He _speaks_. 
> 
> FYI I'm probably gonna be MIA till the end of June because of my summer class. And it'll most likely be another fic that posts before this one. 
> 
> But finally! Some theories/explanations~ and maybe even some conversation soon ;D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're baaaack. With an extra long chapter to make up for the delay ;p

They’d put the clinic behind them, but Sunstreaker’s spark still pulsed heavily in his chest. 

The shock of Bob’s _voice_ echoing against the stark walls of the examination room hadn’t ceased to resound in his frame, persisting even as they walked away from the hospital. Bob led the way this time, and as he trailed behind him, Sunstreaker absently traced the movement of plates on the insecticon’s back. He was trying to gather the threads of his processor, which felt as though they’d spilled out in every which direction—his thoughts a tangled mess.

Right now he didn’t know _what_ to think, or even how to. 

Bob looked back every couple of kliks to make sure that he was still following, the occasional, inquisitive ‘Sunny? Sunny?’ emerging if he deemed that Sunstreaker had fallen too far behind. 

He had no idea where Bob had picked the nickname up. Usually, he’d be irritated about someone else using it—was known to gripe even when Sideswipe did, despite how he’d enjoyed the private claim to his intimacy in the past—but it sounded right coming from Bob’s vocalizer. 

It also drew the attention of passerby, however, and Sunstreaker resolved to put Bob’s concern to rest. He cleared his vocalizer. 

“I’m fine, Bob. Just thinking. You can go on ahead.” 

As long as he stayed within sight, Sunstreaker didn’t have many qualms about Bob’s safety. Especially not now that they’d established his intelligence on top of... everything else. Realistically, it was other mechs that needed to be worried should they try to start something.

Bob chirred an affirmative. Despite his newfound capacity for speech, he still seemed equally inclined to rely on other audial cues to communicate. Thankfully, Sunstreaker had some practice with those. 

Despite himself, his mind drifted to the examination room again. 

Upon hearing Bob speak, his vents had closed so suddenly that he’d nearly choked on the blowback. First Aid had been unfazed. He’d grinned with delight, and returned the greeting effortlessly, and Sunstreaker honestly couldn’t remember now if he’d managed to cough one out of his own. 

Inner turmoil had rendered him silent as First Aid finished up the examination, asking Bob some basic questions to gauge his condition. After granting him a clean bill of health, he’d sent them on their way with a cheerful pat. And that’d been that. 

On the way out, Sunstreaker had received an encouraging message in his comm, along with a datafile suspiciously titled ‘Your Insecticon and You’. ‘Research and pointers!’ the message said, and it came with the assurance that he could ping First Aid any time. It was nothing short of polite, but Sunstreaker _swore_ the mech was laughing at him. 

Past the surly receptionist, and out the doors, and then they’d been free. Free to stare at one another, mostly. But a floundering ‘uh, do you wanna go home?’ had earned him a happy affirmative, and it’d been beyond strange, to hear one of Bob’s trills tacked onto the end of a proper word. 

Now, Sunstreaker was trying to figure out how to make stilted conversation. He was still reeling from the recent revelations, but more than anything, he was wrestling with how to move forward—finding it hard to reconcile how he’d treated Bob in the past with the new mech in front of him. 

Bob didn’t seem to feel the need to speak unless prompted, which had given him a chance to sort out his thoughts. In the meantime, he was trying not to let the thorny mass of his field disturb Bob’s carefree stride, but it was proving hard. 

Sunstreaker was, quite frankly, feeling guilty as all pit. And he was scared to frag it up further. 

Lost in introspection again, Sunstreaker missed the fact that Bob had stopped, and promptly walked into a wall of plating. He subsequently learned that Bob’s spikes were no more welcoming in this form. 

Bob reached out to steady him, laying a warm servo on Sunstreaker’s forearm. His field bled apology, and mild concern. 

And that was the crux of it; the thing that Sunstreaker was so hung up on. He was busy composing an apology of his own, but his was proving a little harder to articulate.

“Okay, kay?” Bob asked. 

“Yeah,” Sunstreaker said distractedly, despite the sting of his cabling where the spikes had dug in. “Listen—” 

He paused to glare at a nearby mech, whose optics had glued themselves to the sight of Bob’s fingers on his plating. The mech looked like he was ready to step in; did he think Sunstreaker some meek towerling that needed saving? 

_Neutrals,_ he thought scornfully, because only they were blind enough to miss the signs of war on him—in the way that he carried himself, in his expression and field, in his _battle-grade armor_...

Primus have mercy on those that thought he was only a pretty face, because they’d need it when he was through with them.

Thankfully, his scowl was enough. The mech looked away after a moment. But now Sunstreaker could feel all the _other_ optics watching them—some more hostile than others, but all degrees of wary. He did his best not to bristle under the attention.

This time, Bob noticed too. 

“Why do they look, look?” he asked. 

“They’re, uh. You’re not what they’re used to,” Sunstreaker explained. “We don’t really get a lot of mechs like you.”

“Other mechs look funny to Bob,  Bob,” Bob pointed out. “Still bad to stare, stare.” He looked affronted. 

Sunstreaker’s engine turned over as a startled laugh erupted from him. Here he was, trying to be diplomatic for once in his life, and Bob had seen right through him. It served as another reminder to not underestimate the new mech. Narrow assumptions about what Bob could and couldn’t understand weren’t going to get him anywhere.

“Well, they’re _assholes_ then,” he amended, raising his voice so that the closest of the voyeurs heard. A number of helms darted back to what they’d been doing.

Bob nodded firmly. 

Sunstreaker stifled another chuckle, smiling despite himself. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all, if they were already bonding over the... banality of other mechs. He’d never been _good_ at conversation, but he’d never had to be with Sideswipe. With any luck, Bob would slot into that category. He didn’t seem bothered by Sunstreaker’s aloofness, or the abrasive attitude towards strangers.

Though, First Aid might regret letting _him_ teach Bob about the world, when all was said and done.

“What’s that, that?” asked Bob. He was pointing at a display of rather risque photos, and Sunstreaker sputtered, suddenly tasked with explaining what a pin-up was. The calendars were being sold to raise funds for one of the rebuilding projects—purportedly ‘for a good cause’—but Sunstreaker was pretty sure that a good cause was the last thing on the mind of anyone picking up ‘Thotobots’. Yeah, Starscream had endorsed that one.

And so it went. A little piece of the wall had been chipped away, and as Sunstreaker quickly learned, Bob was a well of curiosity. He wasn’t an avid conversationalist—saying exactly what he meant, and nothing more—but he _did_ have a lot of questions. It helped. Answering them was easy enough, and the constant line of inquiry circumvented a lot of the potential for awkward silence. 

Sunstreaker was finding that he really enjoyed Bob’s voice. There was a sonorous quality to it that soothed his prickly sensornet, and having another mech to speak to in the crowd helped ground him in the space. It kept Sunstreaker from falling too deep into distraction; each reminder of Bob’s newfound ability was still a slight jolt to his sensornet. 

Other mechs didn't share that appreciation. Those that heard Bob speak started often, and Sunstreaker didn't miss the way they drew away, nor the mechs that avoided their path. He frowned. The only upside to the avoidance was that navigating the throng was made much easier. Slowly but surely, they made their way back through the crowd. 

It didn’t seem to put a damper on Bob’s mood. He was too busy being interested in… everything, really. Sunstreaker had begun to make a game of figuring out what would catch Bob’s attention, and what would keep it. So far, he’d had a hard time predicting what he’d like. Trinkets were dismissed without a second glance, but the swathes of fabric hanging from one stall, the imported scarves in the next, they drew his optic—were lauded as ‘good for nest’. 

He evidently had no use for tech; datapads were glossed over in favor of things that shone and caught the light. The one thing that _was_ consistently predictable was the fuel. Bob had a keen sense for the location of energon and other consumables, pointing out all the stalls to Sunstreaker without fail, and asking what they were. He seemed pleased by the variety.

Sunstreaker noticed that Bob was eyeing a stall of copper crunches particularly keenly, and decided he had the funds to spare. He made for the vendor, piquing Bob’s interest. 

Upon their approach, the mech had the nerve to shuffle his wares away from them, drawing the farthest containers within his reach. He was met by the full force of Sunstreaker’s glare. The sign said fifteen credits, but now he was feeling less than charitable.

“Ten,” he said flatly, and whatever the merchant saw in his gaze left him disinclined to argue. Sunstreaker grabbed one of the packages, and flicked the credit chip at him as he left. 

He shoved the container in Bob’s direction. 

“Here,” he offered. 

The concern emanating from Bob cleared almost immediately. He took the proffered snacks as gently as his claws would allow, and Sunstreaker watched as his optics had narrowed to happy crescents. His engine kicked on with a rumbling purr, and the sound sparked something in him.

They walked in silence for a while as Bob dug in. Then, Sunstreaker found the treats being pushed in his direction once more. Only a third of them had been eaten. 

“It’s yours, Bob. You can have it,” he reassured him. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. 

Unexpectedly, a pang of disappointment struck him. Maybe Bob hadn’t liked them after all. 

Bob’s wings ‘brrzed’ behind him. An aura of consternation had overtaken his field. 

“Sunny eats, eats” he insisted, though his antennae had lowered—wings tucked back and armor clamping down as though he were trying to make himself smaller.

Sunstreaker hesitated. He didn’t want Bob feeling obligated to give him anything, but if it was that important…

“Okay, but you have to eat half first.”

And Sideswipe had said he didn’t know how to compromise. Hah.

Bob’s wings fluttered again, but he continued to hold out the snack. Sunstreaker stopped, and crossed his arms.

Their staring match was short-lived; Bob seemed to realize that Sunstreaker wouldn’t be changing his mind, and he retracted the crunches reluctantly. He withdrew another servoful, and then handed it back. 

Bemusedly, Sunstreaker accepted. 

Already, the idea of _this_ Bob was solidifying in his processor. It helped that he was so... vibrant, so full of life. And opinionated, apparently. It didn’t mean Sunstreaker was any closer to understanding the insecticon though. It’d become clear through their brief interactions that Bob’s motivations were completely alien to him, and already, he had a feeling that reconciling some of their ideas was going to take some work.

For now, Bob seemed satisfied that he’d accepted the gift. Despite his lack of appetite, the copper was good. It broke satisfactorily beneath his denta, and the tangy flavor lingered on his glossa. 

He was just finishing them as they got back.

“So, here we are,” said Sunstreaker awkwardly, opening the door. As if Bob hadn’t seen it this morning.

Bob had to duck to get through the entrance, and Sunstreaker set a reminder to himself to see if there was anything he could do about that. Were there even housing regulations yet?

“Yes, yes,” purred Bob. He looked pleased as he surveyed the room. “Hive, hive.”

Warmth flickered in Sunstreaker’s chassis. 

“I thought ‘hive’ was other insecticons?” he prodded. “Y’know, family or whatever.”

“Yes. Both, both.”

Bob peered inquisitively at Sunstreaker, and then in the direction of the kitchen.

“Does Sunny want energon? Bob can fetch, fetch.”

They were gonna have to talk about Bob’s eagerness to feed him. Sunstreaker could concede to some level of oversight—Sideswipe had always been good about prompting him—but his frame did have its limits, and he had a feeling they were far lower than an insecticon’s.

He still wasn’t hungry, but Bob had evidently decided that their shared snack hadn’t been enough. And Sunstreaker was loathe to shoot down any of his ideas while he was still finding his footing. Also, he wanted to make sure...

“You know you don’t have to do what I tell you right?” he prodded. “Not like before. And you don’t have to ‘fetch’ things for me either, unless you want to.” _Please don’t let this be some kind of residual… obligation._

“Yes, yes.”

Okay. Okay, good. 

Bob waved a servo at him, wiggling his fingers. 

“Bob wants practice. Likes bringing Sunny things, things.”

At Sunstreaker’s nod, he scuttled off. 

When Bob returned with the energon, Sunstreaker noticed that one of the cubes exhibited some runoff—as though it’d sloshed over the edge when the container had been picked up—but there was no other mess to note. He guessed that Bob’s dexterity was improving, and now the issue lay more in judging his own strength.

Sunny took his cube with a muttered thanks. 

And then stood there awkwardly. 

He looked at Bob, and Bob looked patiently at him in turn, holding his cube carefully in both servos. Sunstreaker scuffed his pede against the ground. 

_**Think** , idiot. You can’t just stand here doing nothing._

His paints tempted him; the urge to deal with the day’s commotion through art had tightened around his spark, but he wasn't so much of an aft as to just drag Bob around the apartment and ignore him. 

“Do you wanna play a board game?” he hedged. It was a dumb suggestion, but he and Sideswipe had always liked the more fast-paced strategy games.

Bob tilted his helm at him, uncomprehending. Right. He wouldn’t know what that was. 

Well, explaining would give Sunstreaker something to do besides make a fool of himself.

“C’mon,” he said, heading over to the corner couch. “I'll show you.”

They settled at adjacent corners, and it was almost comedic to watch Bob’s expression as he registered the give of the cushions, optics widening in delight as he sunk down. Small Bob had always been allowed on the couch, but Sunstreaker imagined that his sensory perception had changed drastically since then, and that wasn’t taking his increased size into account.

Sunstreaker caught himself smiling, and cleared his vocalizer. He pulled the game out from under the table and and began to busy himself with setting up the board. 

In the meantime, he began explaining the rules. By the time he’d finished, Bob was staring at the board in consternation.

“Why, why?” he asked finally. 

Sunstreaker paused.

“Why, what?”

Bob pointed at the board.

“The game? Why you play it?” Sunstreaker clarified. 

A nod. Bob continued to study the board as though he’d discover life’s mysteries in it.

Sunstreaker was at a loss. But then again, he didn’t know whether the swarm had had anything similar. Had they had the luxury, or even the desire? He guessed not.

“Did you never play games when you were uh, smaller?” 

Bob nodded resolutely. 

“Hide and find. Chase, chase,” he offered.

So, things that would have made him better at foraging for food. Sunstreaker took a moment to try and explain in a way which Bob would understand.

“Well, it’s supposed to be fun,” he hedged. “It keeps you busy, but its not work. It’s... competition without high stakes, and there’s a goal to work towards. Keeps your processor sharp.”

Bob still seemed a little dubious.

“It’s also good for talking,” he added. _Which we should probably do, even though I’m going to suck_.

This time, Bob nodded. He took his piece and moved it forward, chirring in approval at the place he’d chosen. Then he reached for his cube, and brought it up to his mask. Sunstreaker tried not to stare as it parted and exposed the alien mouthparts beneath. 

A cycle later, Bob had come around to the game. He liked that the goal was to use one’s space as efficiently as possible—like building a hive, he’d said. Sunstreaker thought he was maybe still a little unclear about the non-practical applications of board games, but he seemed to be having a good time. 

Currently, he was beaming across the table at Sunstreaker. Or, he assumed that’s what he was doing; Bob’s mouthparts tended to flare outwards where another mech would smile, and his field reflected his satisfaction. 

Bob had won.

...again. 

Halfway into another aft-kicking, Sunstreaker felt the guilt nagging at him. Until now he’d kept the conversation light— skating around the well, insecticon in the room. He still didn’t know where to start with his questions, but…

“Bob? I wanted to uh, apologize,” he began clumsily, avoiding optic-contact altogether. “For treating you like a—not like a person. Before all of this, but also after you… woke up. I was an aft to assume.” 

Apologies weren’t something Sunstreaker was used to; it was seldom that he felt someone deserved one, honestly. In this case, though, it was cut and dry. He’d been interrupted at the market, but he needed to finish what he’d started. 

Bob didn’t let him get any further. 

“No sorry. Sunstreaker didn't know, know”.

“I should have, though!” he objected. They’d only been cohabiting for how long?

Bob didn’t try to tell, tell,” Bob pointed out. “Knew Sunny would figure it out, out. 

“Why’d you let me boss you around anyway? Y’know… after. This morning.”

“Wasn’t bossing. Sunny is hive, hive,” Bob said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. 

“Everything is fine, fine” he reassured him. “Bob was different, different.”

“”So you weren’t... like this. Before. And I just didn’t know,” Sunstreaker ventured.

“No. Changed for Sunny, Sunny”.

That… raised more questions than answers.

“Are you…? Did you choose this change? Are you… enjoying it?” What a question to ask someone who’d only been functioning like this since the morning. 

“Yes, yes.” He leaned forward, more serious than Sunstreaker had seen him thus far. “Sunny needed Bob. Bob wanted to to.”

“Okay—” Sunstreaker said, and then took a deep vent. “—And now? What do you want? Out of—I mean, _life_? I guess? ” Because _this_ line of inquiry was easier to answer, right. “Or even just, tomorrow”.

Bob chirred thoughtfully.

“Bob wants Sunny, Sunny. Wants—” He paused, his wings doing the thing again. “Don’t know how to say yet. Talk more tomorrow, tomorrow?”

Sunstreaker released a vent he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. 

“Yeah. ‘Course.” 

Another round passed, and Bob was beginning to look sleepy. His antennae had started to droop, and it was the first game Sunstreaker had won. 

“Recharge?” he suggested, and Bob chittered an agreement. 

Upon entering his room, he remembered one crucial detail. 

There was only one berth.

___________________________________

  
[Hey !!!]  
[What? I’m trying to recharge.]  
[Update??]  
[Oh. I don’t know. Everything’s weird.]  
[Good weird or bad weird?]  
[Just… weird. I’m not sure what he wants.]  
[The guy just figured out that baths aren’t evil incarnate. Cut him some slack.]  
[Can’t you ever take anything seriously?]  
[Sure I can!]  
[Really.]  
[I take _you_ seriously. Night, Sunny ( ˘ ³˘) <3]  
[Goodnight, Sideswipe.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that the game they were playing is something simple and quick like Blokus :D


End file.
